There must be something else there
by silverflight8
Summary: SPOILERS for SONG OF THE LIONESS. Background fic for Alexander of Tirragen: at first the friend of Alanna, he slowly becomes the antagonist.
1. Chapter 1

No trigger warnings apply (please contact me if you do find any and I will fix this). Asterisks are being eaten by the text editor so scene changes may be strangely connected.

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He was in the courts practising when the Duke of Conté walked in. He flicked his eyes over to see who it was, but continued to practise, cutting the sword left and then down in a curve. The sword was beautifully made and perfect for his hand; if nothing else, his father's armoury was well-stocked. He slid through the training steps until his muscles hurt and welcomed the fatigue.

The Duke watched without speaking until Alex finished. "Very nice," he commented, drawing only a shrug from Alex. The Duke pressed on. "I've been looking for a squire."

"Leon of Aminar has already offered," said Alex brusquely. He was not Gifted and had not attended the class on magic, but he could see that Alan was unnerved, and that page was never anxious.

"True. I hope you know about Eldorne," said the Duke, in an apparent non sequitur. Alex tried not to react, turning around to face him calmly. What about Eldorne? They were Tirragen's neighbours, true, but of late had been on good terms—or so his mother told him.

"It's not much news now, but Eldorne is amassing men," the Duke noted, plainly aware of the sudden uneasiness. "He is ambitious, and his daughter will be presented to the court in a few years—a beauty, they say, and might be interesting for the prince."

The western borders of Tirragen were only scantly guarded; after all, the danger came usually from Tusaine, not Tortall. He made a mental note to ride up to the fief as soon as he was able: Duke Gareth would understand. He hoped. "They can't do any damage—Edorne's fief is so far off! And if Eldorne's planning to use his daughter, then why bother with all the militia? It would be easier."

"Ambitious, yes, but stupid he is not. If marrying into the line doesn't work, then conquering by force might. After all, the Crown Prince is hardly old enough to rule. He hasn't proven himself to the people and the general populace don't know him, only his father. My aunt is not strong. Eldorne's in the Book of Gold, he's on good terms with almost everyone, and he's popular. Very much so."

Alex walked out of the practice room then, without looking at the Duke. Having satisfied himself that a burr had been put under the squire's skin, the Duke of Conté left, too.

. . .

"…the history of Sarain, about the first to the fifth dynasties, two and a half pages due tomorrow…" the voice of Sir Myles drifted into Alex's ear, but his mind was already far off. Sarain, he said to himself thoughtfully. The lowlands were prime horse-breeding plains, the northern areas rocky and hilly. The geographical divide extended into the people—the K'mir one culture, the people of the highlands another. Ruler: _jin_ Wilima. Five thousand years ago, a massive earthquake had shaken up the landscape and created a deep fault line that hadn't filled in completely over the years. There were still places where one could go to pray and stand in a temple dedicated to the god that might keep the land together, the same one that brought the tumultuous rains and storms…

"Alex, stop daydreaming." The voice of Sir Myles intruded again, and he felt a brief surge of annoyance; _he_ had been planning his paper, unlike Geoffrey, who was dozing inconspicuously by the window, head propped up by the wall. But he nodded anyway, and accepted the extra assignment that Myles gave him after the class.

At the practise courts, it was the same. Hitting the same target again and again made him bored. They'd only been doing the same thing for two years, he thought. All of the squires—or nearly all of them, he amended privately, as he saw Lorne get whacked painfully by the sandbag—had hit the targets and did it with a complacency that made the training master irritated. Archery he had mastered long ago, while he was still a boy; Tirragen was a decently-sized fief in the mountains, and hunting was necessary. Two years before Alex had been born, a cold winter with wolves crossing through the fief and then an autumn with feral boars had ensured that the next Lord of Tirragen knew what to do in an emergency.

The riding was simple. His horse had been well-trained by him and easy to control. The sword fighting, scripted by Aram, was equally dull—he itched to fight, to wrestle, to see if he could win with his own mind and his own tactics, not one borrowed by another. The other squires were not swordsmen: Raoul was too slow, Jonathan still awkward, Gary fine enough but not exciting. The private lessons Duke Gareth gave him were of no use—it seemed that knight training never ended and nothing _interesting _happened.

"Watch your feet," snapped Aram as he went mechanically through the scripted fight with another squire.

. . .

"Tirragen, you cannot." The Duke of Naxen, Gary's father, was unyielding. "Your skills are good, yes, but they are not enough." That was irritating. He was one of the best squires and perfectly ready. "It's inadequate, and before a knight chooses you as a squire, you _must_ complete your studies. A visit to Tirragen right now is out of the question."

Alex was on the verge of telling Naxen about Eldorne, then reconsidered. It might be real, and it might not be real. He would send a messenger to Tirragen and trust his mother to deal with it.

. . .

"You do feel held back, don't you," the Duke of Conté was now at his desk, gently lifting the pages of an old manuscript and examining the type closely. He was wearing gloves and had seemed very absorbed when Alex walked in.

"Why does Aram plan our fights? It takes out any enjoyment we might get out of it."

The Duke shrugged, not looking up. "Perhaps he thinks you're not as good as you need to be in order to do well in a freeform fight."

"I _am_ good enough. Aram doesn't know anything."

There was a pause as the Duke carefully placed the brittle sheet back onto his desk. Then he got up. "We can have a duel now, if you like. You can prove it to me."

The practise courts were empty again when they arrived. Most of the squires and pages were drowning in homework at this time of the year—in order to accommodate the Midwinter's events, the teachers threw work onto the students early. Even the servants that checked in from time to time to watch the matches were nowhere to be seen.

Alex took the sword from his side—anyone caught without a sword was automatically sent to talk to the Duke of Naxen these days—and stripped off his harness. The sudden lightening of the weight felt invigorating and encouraging. He stretched a little, drawing a few passes in the air and trying to calm himself.

"Guard."

Alex tested the Duke's defence, probing for reflexes. His eyes took in everything at once, sizing up the Duke: Conté was much larger and heavier than he and taller, too. The Duke's weakness, though, was an inability to hide his movements. Conté might not have been trained as a knight—even Prince Jonathan's decision to train as one had been slightly unexpected, given the present king's views on fighting—but someone had taught him how to fight. Alex saw the opportunity as the Duke made a pass at him: Alex lunged in. The Duke's sword just barely blocked it and the two locked blades for a few agonizing seconds. Alex strained, feeling the familiar pain and ignoring it. The Duke might be a sorcerer, but he was still heavier. Alex broke the hold, scraping the swords together in a horrible sound. He brought the sword back into a defensive position and watched. The Duke telegraphed his movement; it took only another move to disarm him—

The sword stayed in the Duke's hand. A moment of confusion, and then Alex realized the Duke was cheating with magic. He swiftly switched tactics. Here at last Naxen's training came in: he fell into the endlessly-repeated sequence that both he and Alan had been forced to do, battering at the Duke from everywhere he could reach. A moment later, he found himself on the floor, his sword thrown from his hand, and the Duke's sword touching his throat.

They stayed like that for a second, the sword point quivering. Then the Duke stepped back and Alex got up, flushing a little, embarrassed that he had been disarmed so easily and, well, that he had been beaten at all. With Naxen you could expect a duel to end like this, but no one else in the palace could fight like this—or so he had thought.

Having collected his sword, he looked back at the Duke. Conté was looking not at all tired, as one might expect from a desk-bound man. Instead, he was looking faintly amused as he removed the blunt sword tip they had fenced with.

"I'll be your squire." The words came out of his mouth before he could check them. He still didn't _like_ the Duke: it seemed that too much of the Duke was hidden and dangerous if one tried to investigate. There were strange coincidences, too, what with the Sweating Sickness and the fact that the Duke had been miles away and never had a chance to help. From the Duke's swordsmanship, though, Alex had learned a great deal. Moreover, he seemed to have access to all sorts of scripts and knowledge that most of the squires and knights were barred from. It would be beneficial for him to be his squire.

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This is the first chapter, written for bookchan for the help_pakistan effort. This has been crossposted from . Comments, concrit and reviews are all welcome: I am open to feedback. Please sign your reviews so that I can respond.


	2. Chapter 2

His Ordeal was a terrifying whirl. The meditation before entering the chamber hadn't frightened him; neither did the Oath or the requirements of a knight. But it was the unmanageable confusion that made it an ordeal.

At first it hadn't been too bad. The Chamber was empty. The walls were empty. There was nothing to suggest that it might be the Chamber of Ordeal; on the contrary, it resembled a room that someone had forgotten to decorate.

He was completely alone. A voice whispered in his mind, asking if this was it. _Are you going to spend the rest of your life unknown and alone? Just another ineffectual knight, another faceless, obscure noble, someone relegated to the edges of Tortall?_ Still nothing showed up in the Chamber. Alex wished something would: he might be arrogant, but he also knew that his swordsmanship was at least the equal of anyone in the kingdom. Slowly the voice grew louder. _Who do you think you are, to do this, anyway? You're not terribly special—there is even a squire out there who can duel you and win. There are more than enough knights who can joust like you, who are more knowledgeable, more widely travelled—what value have you got? _He had never quite let go of the need to become better than everyone else, and it was hurting him now.

Then very slowly, the walls of the Chamber began to disappear. Alex frowned, rubbing his eyes. Was he being blinded by something in the air, or was it just the Chamber? Before long, he could make out nothing clearly. Even his hands were blurry and indistinct. _What is this?_ he thought, beginning to feel panicked. The world around him started to move, shifting and morphing, throwing lights and strange shapes at him. Alex ducked something aimed at him—was it a real object, he wondered, or was it just an illusion? He didn't want to know. The floor suddenly wasn't solid, either, and as it bucked, he lurched unsteadily.

His mind searched for something that would anchor him. His memories of real things were insubstantial and melted when he tried to reach for them. The facts he had learned as a page were just as distant. The scholar in him felt a pang of impotent anger, but there was no time to look for esoteric knowledge. Mathematics, perhaps, but in the confusion his mind could not rest in their familiarity. When he was younger, he loved mathematics for its solidness, for the clean unravel of problems into answers. Then later, for the tumble of ideas that made no sense to his mind, but worked beautifully. There wasn't much that was solid in his world. He was Alexander of Tirragen, he felt sure—or was he sure? It wasn't as though there was proof: with this chaos, and even without the chaos, who was he?

Alex caught himself just as he began to slide down the slippery questions and relativity. He wanted to scream, just to reassure himself that _he_ was real, at least, if nothing around him was. Making noises was forbidden, and he was not going to fail this.

In the end he stopped thinking and simply tried to endure the onslaught. The world around him was formless and ever shifting, but it was better than what was in his head. _Worthless, _said the voice of someone he might have known, except now he couldn't remember who. _What can you do to help? Can you even make a name for yourself? You will die, you will be buried, and then what? Your name will be nothing more than a note in the family tree._

When the door swung open he almost collapsed into Jonathan and Gary's arms. They had been waiting outside alone; the Duke of Conté was nowhere to be seen.

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As before, feedback and concrit are very much appreciated.


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